


A Golden Cage

by sansaclegane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Captivity, F/M, Falling In Love, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, On the Run, Slow Burn, idk what i'm doing let me live, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaclegane/pseuds/sansaclegane
Summary: Sansa Stark has been imprisoned in the Red Keep’s dungeons under King Joffrey’s orders. Will his guard dog be her worst nightmare - or her savior?





	1. Taking Wing

**Sansa**

 

Sansa Stark could not say for certain how long she had been locked away in the cells beneath the Red Keep. Had it been days? Weeks? She couldn’t be sure. All Sansa knew was that this miserable cell was paradise compared to what she’d endured before.  Anything was better than Joffrey. Even this. At least, that’s what she told herself.

In the years prior, Sansa had been given freedom of the castle. She did the embroidery work she loved so much and had her lessons from a septa. Life was relatively normal, or at least as normal as Sansa could hope for. But that had been when the Queen Mother was still alive, and without her influence, King Joffrey became a rabid dog without a leash. Sansa never thought a day would come when she missed Cersei Lannister, but the days after her death had proven Sansa wrong. It was no secret that Joffrey had been the one to kill his own mother, but no one dared to make a move against him. Not anymore. It was then that the Red Keep became Sansa’s own personal hell, and Joffrey Baratheon was its king. Sansa cringed. _Joffrey._ The boy king she had once loved with all of her heart, her first and most fatal mistake. _How could I have been so blind?_

Being of noble birth afforded Sansa few comforts. She was kept on the second level of the Red Keep’s dungeons, a space reserved for highborn prisoners. Her tiny cell had a straw bed in the corner, a chamber pot, and a single torch burning outside. Sansa was thankful for the light. She spent hours watching the fire dance, imagining she was in her finest gown dancing beside it. The fire became her only friend, but she couldn’t dance in a dress that had been Joffrey’s favorite. Its light blue silk brought out her Tully eyes and gave her an illusion of innocence lost. She would never dance in it again.

As Sansa looked at the flickering light, she found herself remembering her dream from the previous night. She was her direwolf, Lady, prowling the dungeon hallways searching for Sansa in the darkness. Lady would tear through the bars with teeth of stronger steel, fresh blood still on her muzzle from ripping out her guards’ throats, and carry Sansa on her back to safety. But those were only dreams, and every morning when Sansa woke she was back in her cell again.

Sansa was brought back to reality when the torchlight was broken by a shadow. She turned her head to see an elderly servant at the door to her cell. Thoughts of escape flooded Sansa’s mind. _There’s no guard on him,_ she realized. _It must be a trick. Some test to see if I’d try and run_. She knew how Joffrey liked to play his games, and Sansa knew better than to let herself be fooled. Even if she did manage it, where would she go? How could she ever hope to make it out of King’s Landing unseen?

The old man unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Please,” Sansa whispered to him. “Please help me.”

The servant looked up at her, his face stained with pity, then quickly averted his eyes as he picked up her chamber pot. He glanced back at her as he rounded the corner. She saw he had left her cell door unlatched. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat. _I have to do this,_ she told herself. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, perhaps even the last Stark._ Sansa felt tears growing hot in her eyes, and she forced herself to blink them away. _I must be strong, like Robb was. I did not defy Joffrey just to die down here._

In a moment of weakness—or perhaps strength—Sansa gave in.

Sansa jumped up from her bed of straw and bolted for the door. She wedged the door open just enough to slip through, grabbed her torch off its home on the stone wall, and ran. She flew past angry prisoners begging her to set them free. Captivity weakened her more than she thought, her faithful torch heavy in her hand. Her weary legs came to a halt as she rounded the corner to the twisting staircase. _This is the one,_ Sansa realized. _The one staircase that matters._ There would be guards at the top of these stairs, but it was the only way out. Her only hope. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, Robb’s bravery, or sudden blind optimism, but Sansa Stark began to climb. Her bare feet screamed at her to stop, broken blisters stinging with every step, but she would not turn back. Not for anything.

She heard the shouting. Shadows rushed toward her from the top of the staircase. _They’re coming._ Sansa whipped around and started to run back down the stairs when a rough hand seized her arm from behind. She turned her head to see Boros Blount. Her eyes widened with fear. _Kingsguard,_ she thought. _I’m done for._

“What do you thinking you’re doing, girl?” the knight spat. “Think you could escape the cells, did you?” His smile was terrifying. Sinister and rotten, and there was a glimmer in his eyes that made Sansa shiver.

“Let go, you’re hurting me!” Sansa cried, but it was no use. The ugly knight tightened his grip on her arm, then lifted her off her feet to carry her back down to her hell. Sansa watched her torch fall and extinguish behind them. Its fire was gone, and so was hers.

Ser Boros dropped Sansa to the ground as they reached the bottom of the staircase, grabbing her wrist to drag her back to her cell. The caged men who had begged her for their freedom were now laughing at her. Sansa felt a heat creep into her cheeks. Shame replaced the little hope that had made her run.

“Shut it, you animals!” Boros yelled at her fellow prisoners. “Unless you want a taste of the beating this one’s about to get!”

Sansa cringed. Of course he would beat her. Ser Boros loved beating her almost as much as Meryn Trant, but it was so secret that Ser Meryn loved other things as well, sick things. Sansa was suddenly grateful that it was Ser Boros who had discovered her.

Sansa prepared herself for the worst as they came upon her cell. Ser Boros shoved her inside. Sansa yelped as she fell to the floor, her knees scraping against the cold, rough stone.

“Stupid girl,” Boros spat. “Maybe this will teach you not to defy your king.” His sharp boot kicked at her ribs. Sansa cried out as her knees slipped out from under her and her face hit the uneven floor, splitting her lip. Another kick. Another. Sansa’s cries soon left her, along with what little dignity remained. “This is your home now, girl,” Boros sneered. “Down here with the scum and vermin, that’s what you are. If I were you I’d thank those Old Gods of yours you still have some value, even if it is only your cunt and claim that’s worth anything.”

Sansa sniffled, wiping the blood from her lip on the back of her hand. She dragged herself onto her bed of straw and pulled her knees to her chest. _He can beat me all he likes,_ Sansa thought. _I won’t let him break me._ She heard Ser Boros latch her cell door shut, and just when she thought she was alone again, his sour voice called out from a distance. “And don’t even think of trying to escape again, stupid girl. We’re going to keep a much closer eye on you from now on.”

And then he was gone. Sansa Stark was left with nothing but broken ribs, and for the first time in a long while, darkness.

 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

 

Sansa woke to the sound of her cell being unlocked, and looked up to see Grand Maester Pycelle. Somehow he looked even older than he had the last time she saw him, and wearier as well. The glorious beard that once hung down to his chest was now just a few white patches desperately clinging to his jaw. He stunk of medicinal herbs and sour wine, Sansa noted, as he shuffled his way towards her. He cracked a weak smile, but there was no kindness in his narrow eyes.

“I am sorry they hurt you, my dear,” the old man said. “It is a grievous thing indeed to harm a child, even if she is a _vile_ traitor. I do hope you have had sufficient time to think of your sins, Lady Sansa. I myself spent a time in these cells, yes indeed. I had your lord husband to thank for that, if you care to recall.”

Sansa did recall, and she couldn’t say she blamed Tyrion for that decision. Pycelle was as two-faced as they came, and Sansa knew better than to trust him. Still, she was thankful to have her injuries tended to all the same. “I do, my lord,” Sansa forced herself to say. “I am truly sorry for the suffering you endured at his hands. He was not a noble man.” Courtesy was her armor, even here. Besides, insulting the Grand Maester would scarcely award Sansa any favor with the Lannisters, not without her husband to soften the blow.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but has there been any word? Of… of Lord Tyrion?” Sansa asked Pycelle tentatively. He cleared his throat as he dabbed ointment on Sansa’s knee, then sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“No, my lady,” he began. “No word. Last we heard he was still gallivanting about with that Targaryen girl in the East. A pity, a true pity. What treason! What a shame upon House Lannister. I always misliked that lecherous Imp, I told them as such. Meaning you no offence, my lady.”

Sansa felt a knot form in her stomach as she turned her face away from him. She wondered if Tyrion knew what they had done to her since he left, and if he would care. But that was years ago now, no doubt Tyrion had forgotten all about her, just as everyone else had. There was no one left to help her now.

Grand Maester Pycelle took his leave when he had seen to all of Sansa’s injuries, and left a fresh torch burning outside her cell door. But the fire didn’t dance the way it used to. All it did was remind her of her failure, of the stupid little girl she’d always been. _A stupid little bird in a cage,_ she thought. _The Hound was right, he always was. He tried to warn me and I didn’t listen. I should have gone away with him when I had the chance._ But Sandor Clegane had never left the city as he told her he would. After the battle on the Blackwater, he reappeared the next day at court beside Joffrey as if the previous night had never happened. Sansa often wondered why he stayed. _Maybe he really is the coward they all say he is._ But The Hound had told her his secret, she remembered. _He was only afraid of the fire._

It was growing colder outside. She could feel it when she pressed her skin against her cells’ stone walls. _Winter is coming._ _The Stark words, my words._ Even in King’s Landing, the city that once held her summer dreams, winter would come for her sooner or later. And life was not a song, as Littlefinger had warned her so many years ago. Sansa had learned that lesson many times over since Petyr Baelish had last visited the Capital. If he knew of her suffering, he made no move to stop it. _Another false friend,_ she thought.

A noise caught Sansa’s attention, distant and muffled. Sansa lifted her head towards the sound and crept toward the bars. _What is that?_ she thought. _No one should be down here for hours._ Fear filled her; an unscheduled visitor could scarcely be a good thing, not here in this place. _It could be Joffrey,_ Sansa realized. _Did Ser Boros tell him I tried to escape? Has he sent for me?_ Sansa shuddered at the thought, praying the intruder wasn’t headed towards her. Torchlight grew brighter in the distance, and the sound she recognized as footsteps grew louder with each passing second. _Please don’t be Joffrey, please don’t be Joffrey,_ she prayed. _Please._

Sansa heard a voice and her fear abated.

“Little bird,” rasped Sandor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhh my goodness. So this is my first fanfic ever since my pre-pubescent cringe-worthy Harry Potter fanfiction days (yikes) so please be kind to me!! 
> 
> A huge thank you to my amazing beta [moffnat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/) for taking the time to work with a crazy amateur like myself - I love you to bits! <3
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments, I need all the feedback I can get! I don't have a set schedule for updates, but I will try to make them as frequently as I'm able! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


	2. Guard Dog

**Sandor**

 

“Why not just kill the traitorous little cunt then?” Meryn Trant quipped. “She’s not worth the trouble she makes.”

The king turned his head to face Trant, his wormy lips curling into a grin as he leaned back against the balcony. “Kill her?” Joffrey chuckled. “Oh, no… she’s to be my prize.”

Sandor Clegane’s massive hand tightened around his sword hilt, the burned side of his mouth twitching. He had heard it all before. Since the death of the queen, Sansa Stark was the only thing Joffrey spoke of. _His prize,_ Sandor thought, disgusted. There was scarcely anything Sandor could do about it. _What could I do? Kill the bloody king of Westeros?_ The little bird didn’t deserve this, no, but she was hardly worth an early grave. He wouldn’t let her be.

“A tasty prize, indeed,” Joffrey continued. “I’m keeping her nice and ripe for me.”

“Your _prize_ almost escaped yesterday, Your Grace,” Boros Blount reminded the king. Joffrey lifted his wine goblet off the table. “Perhaps if we moved her down to one of the lower levels—”

“To the _black cells_ ?” Joffrey spat. “No, that won’t do. They’d make a nasty mess of her… I like her pretty. And if I want her tortured, I’ll do it myself. A _real_ king doesn’t need servants to his work for him.” Joffrey finished off his wine and wiped the remnants with the back of his hand. “Hound,” he said, gesturing to Sandor with his empty goblet. “Be a good dog and fetch more wine. I have a thirst today.”

Sandor nodded curtly and grabbed the empty flagon off the table. He turned and started towards the kitchens, glad enough to get away from the king and his dutiful knights for a time. The last few days in King’s Landing had been madness, a vivid reminder of the city's sack during Robert’s Rebellion. Sandor had only been thirteen, but he still remembered it as though it were a fortnight past. Another mad king, another war. Sandor had always known Joffrey to be cruel, but to kill one’s own mother took a special kind of perversion. One that Sandor was all too familiar with.

 _Gregor,_ Sandor thought in fury. His elder brother had vanished not long after Queen Cersei’s death, most likely run back to the westerlands with his tail between his undead legs. _A shame, that._ He would have liked the chaos that followed. It had become the king’s policy to simply kill the mobs of peasants rather than attempt to resolve the mayhem. _Good King Joffrey,_ Sandor thought, snorting. _And now he wants to finally sink his proud lion’s claws into the little bird._

The thought made Sandor’s jaw clench as he rounded the corner into the Red Keep’s kitchens. The serving girls that didn’t avert their eyes at his arrival stared a bit too long for his comfort, giggling to themselves.

“Bugger you, girl,” he growled at the nearest servant. “Fill this with wine, your king commands it.”

The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of the king, and she took the empty flagon from Sandor without a moment’s hesitation. He turned his back to other servants as the girl left to fetch the wine, preferring not see their curious eyes judging him. _She’s right to be afraid of him,_ Sandor thought. _If I were a smarter man, I might be as well._ But Sandor knew it was good steel and strong arms that truly ruled this world, not cruel little boys with stolen crowns upon their heads. But Joff wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man grown, and with his family dead and buried there was no telling what he might be capable of.

“Did you hear about the Stark girl?” Sandor heard a girl whisper. He turned his head to hear more. “Ser Boros beat her right good. They had to send the Grand Maester down.”

“And she deserves it, done she?” A dark-haired girl replied. “Defyin’ the king like that… don’t she know he want ‘ta _marry_ ‘er?”

“Ser?” asked a small voice, startling him as he felt her tap on his arm.

Sandor turned to face the first serving girl, a fresh scowl upon his face. “Spare me your ‘sers’, girl,” he spat. “I’m not a bloody knight.”

“Y-your wi-wine, m’lor—ser—wine y-you asked for,” the girl squeaked as she took a step backwards. Sandor sighed, running his hand through his tangled hair, and reached forward to grab the flagon from the girl’s shaking hands. _Another buggering bird, this one is. No_ _—_ _a mouse._

Sandor threw what was meant to be an apologetic look at the serving girl that sent her running from the kitchens. _Marry her?_ Could Sandor have heard that right? _The little bird’s already married to the bloody Imp,_ he thought, but Sandor knew he shouldn’t be so shocked. He was Joffrey’s sworn shield, expected to kill anyone the king disliked, but he wasn’t privy to his private affairs. He quickly started back towards the king’s chambers.

As he walked the Red Keep’s halls, everything seemed to change. The pale red stone closed in around him. He could feel the thunder of his heart grow louder in his ears, each step bringing him closer and closer to a decision he did not want to make, to a future he refused to participate in. He had stood by while they killed her father, stood by while they mocked and beat her, stood by while they married her to the Imp, stood by while the life of the only person who had ever shown him kindness was destroyed. He had stood by and done nothing through it all. _Not this time,_ he thought. _Not this girl._

Sandor heard the serving girl’s voice in his head, _Don’t she know he want ‘ta marry ‘er?,_ repeating over and over like a damned song he wanted no part of. But he was a part of it, wasn’t he? No, he had to push it aside. _Don’t she know he want ‘ta marry ‘er?_ The girl’s voice was louder this time. She was screaming at him. _Don’t she know he want ‘ta marry ‘er?_ His pace came to a sudden halt as he rounded the corner to the king’s chambers. He looked down and saw his free hand was curled into a fist, and he felt sweat beading on his forehead. _Don’t she know he want ‘ta marry ‘er?_ He closed his eyes and swallowed.

Sandor knew what he had to do. Not for himself, but for her. _Always for her,_ he vowed. He pushed open the door to King Joffrey’s solar and stepped inside.

“I suppose you’re right, Ser Meryn,” Joffrey started. “We ought to do something about my bride-to-be’s atrocious behavior. I can’t have the future queen fleeing the kingdom now, can I?”

“We should triple the patrols,” Boros suggested.

The king scoffed. “Triple? Surely guarding the _king_ is more important. Still, I agree, we need to keep a closer eye on her. I want her to wake up every morning knowing she’s hopeless. Maybe then she’ll learn to be grateful for what I plan on giving her.” Joffrey smiled at that, a sickening hunger growing in his eyes. “Ah, dog, here you are.”

“Wine, Your Grace.” Sandor said, offering the freshly filled flagon of strongwine to the king. Joffrey grabbed it eagerly and took a long swig, not bothering with the goblet this time.

“A single man, then,” Meryn offered. “I’d be more than happy to guard the future queen for you, Your Grace.”

“The honor should be mine,” Boros interjected. “The girl is already terrified of me. Under my watch, she’d never dare try something so daft again.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he stroked his chin, thinking on the possibilities. He was just about to open his mouth in reply when a harsh voice spoke up.

“I’d guard her,” said Sandor.

The king’s eyes shot towards him. “You?” Joffrey sneered. “You’re my sworn shield, Hound. Why would I allow you to leave me to guard a mere prisoner?”

“Not a mere prisoner, Your Grace—your future queen,” Sandor said. “And I have no doubt a fearsome warrior such as yourself could manage without my protection. You are a child no longer, my king.” Sandor struggled to keep his eyes from rolling as he heard the words pour from his mouth, but he couldn’t stop his sword hand from tightening. “The girl will be quaking with fear night and day with my ugly facing staring at her through the bars.”

Joffrey let out an obnoxious laugh and spilled wine on his doublet. “I don’t doubt it, dog. Still… why would you offer to spend night and day in a dungeon? You’ve never shown much interest in harming her in the past.”

Sandor knew he would ask this. It was no secret that Sandor was the only kingsguard who’d never beaten the Stark girl. “Aye, Your Grace,” Sandor said. “The girl was always too young for my tastes. I have no interest in beating children, unlike some of this lot. Now, though… now she that has, what did you say, _ripened,_ I’m much more willing to put the fear of the gods in her.” Sandor forced himself to crack a smile, selling the lie.

Meryn and Boros began to laugh and the king soon joined them, spilling his strongwine once more. Joffrey wiped his stained doublet with the back of his hand and smiled. “That’s very good to hear, Hound. _Very_ good. I knew you had it in you.” Joffrey refilled his goblet. “You’ll make a most excellent guard dog, I think.”

“Shall I go down to her now then, Your Grace?” Sandor asked through gritted teeth, unable to continue faking their level of amusement.

“Yes, yes, go,” said Joffrey, waving his hand. “And Hound see to it that my lady is made most comfortable. I’d hate for her to be in any… _discomfort_ with the wedding only a fortnight away.”

 _A fortnight?_ Thought Sandor. _Seven hells._ He straightened his back and gave a sharp nod in agreement before leaving to attend to his new position.

A knot began to form in Sandor’s stomach as he walked from the king’s chambers. A fortnight was hardly enough time to do what needed to be done and do it well. Nothing could be left to chance with the little bird’s life at stake. The city was on the verge of falling into complete disarray, and he held no hope that Good King Joffrey would be able to salvage what was left of it when the day of reckoning finally came. But even with so much danger and uncertainty, there was one thing Sandor was sure of: that there was no fucking way he would be leaving this wretched city without Sansa Stark tucked beneath his arm.

 

*** * * * * * * * * ***

 

The Red Keep’s dungeons were much darker than Sandor remembered, even with a torch to light his way. He took care to carry it away from the burned side of his face, but the torchfire still made him uneasy. _This places smells fouler as well,_ he observed. _Not a very pretty cage._ As he descended the staircase to the dungeon’s second level, Sandor began to hear the screams. Distant and muffled, they were still just as horrific. _At least Joff didn’t throw her down there. What was it he said? ‘I like her pretty,’_ Sandor tightened his grip on the torch and quickened his pace.

Sandor paused as he rounded the last corner, and he could hear his heartbeat ringing in his ears. Two small, pale hands gripped the bars of the last cell on his left, blistered and coated in a layer of filth. A long, tangled braid of autumn-red hair hung down over her shoulder, still as bright as shined copper in the torchlight. Her eyes were blue as the summer sea and wide with fear. _Why is she frightened? Doesn’t she know me?_ Sandor wondered. _The torch, she can’t see me._ Sandor lowered it as he walked tentatively towards her cell and cleared his throat.

“Little bird,” Sandor rasped. “King’s got you all caged up, has he?” He saw her features soften at the sound of his voice, which only served to make him more uneasy. Nevertheless, he crouched down outside the bars so his face was at a level with her own.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asked him, averting her eyes from his. _Of course,_ thought Sandor. _No hello, no sign of relief. She can’t even bloody look at me._ “I… apologize, it’s the torch… my eyes. I’ve grown so accustomed to the darkness down here.” _Oh._ Sandor stood and set the torch in the empty holder outside the cell, then lowered himself to the floor again.

“Better?” Sandor asked, not unkindly.

“Yes, better,” Sansa replied, lifting her gaze to meet his. “What are you doing here, though? Not that I don’t appreciate the company.”

“King’s orders,” he said. “After your little stunt, he wants you guarded day and night.”

“And Joffrey just so happened to choose you, his sworn shield, for this very important and sensitive task?” Sansa asked with a quirk in her brow.

“I volunteered,” Sandor retorted, straightening his back.

“You volunteered,” Sansa echoed in a faltering voice. She turned away from him as her fingers toyed with the tangles in her braid. Sandor felt anger rise in his chest, but he pushed it down. _She has a right to be upset,_ he told himself. _She’s been locked up for days._ Still, Sandor hadn’t been prepared for Sansa to be this upset from seeing him.

“Better me than one of those bloody knights you love so much,” Sandor growled.

Sansa’s head snapped back to face him. Her token blue eyes looked almost Stark grey as they narrowed.

“I do not love them,” Sansa whispered harshly. Her eyes were burning a hole through him, unyielding, for a moment making him long for the days when she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her boldness only spurned his anger.

“No?” Sandor taunted. “What about all those pretty little songs you used to sing? Of knights and fair maidens sitting pretty in their castle?”

“More like a cage,” Sansa argued, her voice rising.

“A cage?” Sandor mocked with a laugh. “And what a _golden_ cage it is. With pretty gowns and jewels and servants bowing and scraping and waiting on you hand and foot. What a _terrible_ fucking ordeal it must have all been for you. I bet you were overjoyed to get away from such torment.”

Sansa straightened her back and raised her chin. “A golden cage is just a cage,” she said unquestionably.

The silence between them festered like a wound, but Sansa did not break her gaze.

“Aye,” Sandor agreed. “That’s how the song goes, don’t it?”

 _“And a golden cage is still a cage, no matter who’s inside. This bird shall sing no more for thee, for broken wings can’t fly,”_ Sansa recited in a low voice as a tear trickled down her cheek. Sandor sighed heavily. Kindness was an itch he could never seem to scratch. He opened his mouth to attempt an apology, but no words came out.

Sansa noticed his pathetic gaping and shook her head. She wiped the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and attempted a smile. “You’re lucky I’m not your queen,” she teased. “Or that impetuous mouth of yours would likely cost you your head.”

Sandor knew she was expecting a laugh, or a smile at least, but he couldn’t give her one. He grabbed one of the bars that separated them with his swordhand. Sansa’s smile fell at once, but she dare not disturb the silence, for fear of hearing what she already knew to be true.

“Little bird…” Sandor began.

“No,” Sansa interrupted, her voice shaking. “He can’t mean it, can he?”

“He does,” Sandor confirmed. “In a fortnight.”

Sansa jumped to her feet. Sandor removed his hand from the bars, startled. He stood as she began to pace anxiously around her cell. Sandor only then noticed her dress, blue silk now faded and full of tatters. Sansa clutched at it with her free hand while the other ran through her braid of copper.

“A _fortnight?_ ” Sansa challenged. “And I’m just expected to, what? Sit here alone in the filth and darkness while waiting to be sold off to yet another Lannister? Can he truly do this? Am I not still his aunt by marriage? What of Lord Tyrion?”

She was full of questions. Questions to which Sandor had no answers. “I don’t know, little bird. I expect Joff thinks he can do as he likes now with his bitch mother dead.” As Sandor took a step back to give her some space, Sansa rushed forward and grabbed the iron bars of her cell with both hands. There was an earnestness in her eyes he’d never seen before, but he could see the fresh tears welling behind them, threatening to fall at any moment.

Sansa swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the bars. “I’ll die,” she said. “I will starve myself before I have to go back to him. Do you understand?”

Sandor could see it in her eyes; the fear. And fear like that… he understood that very much. “You won’t have to, little bird,” he assured her in a voice that was much more confident than he was.

“How?” Sansa asked feverently, her voice cracking.

Sandor took a decisive step forward and placed his hand atop hers, still clutching at the iron bars between them. “Because I’m leaving King’s Landing,” he said. “And you’re coming with me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - chapter two!!! So sorry it took me forever to update, as I've said before, I'm new at this so I hope you can be patient with me!! I really enjoyed writing this chapter, wow I love my son Sandor, he's my absolute favorite (besides Sansa, of course, but I digress). Anyhow, here it is! Please let me know what you think in the comments, I truly appreciate any and all feedback :)


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